


You Failed To Fear My Wrath

by Barbara69



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of dead children, Minor Character Deaths, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbara69/pseuds/Barbara69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks after Aramis left the monastery, Luc and Marie show up in Paris. When the Musketeers come across them, Luc is mad at Aramis and Marie tells them that everyone in Douai is dead, they are the only survivors. Someone took vengeance for the Musketeers' actions at the abbey.</p>
<p>Takes place after S 3 Ep. 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There's mention and very short description of murdered children. 
> 
> A big thank you to fredbasset for the beta and the immediate processing! Remaining typos and mistakes are all mine!
> 
> I do not own any of the series' characters, they are property of BBC One and Monsieur Dumas. There is no copyright infringement intended, I only borrowed the characters and concept for this work of fan fiction.

*******

“Look, isn't that your young protégé from Douai over there?” Athos pointed to the far end of the market with a nod of his chin.

Aramis turned to look, unable to detect what the other thought he had seen. “I don't know what you mean, I can't see anyone who even remotely reminds me of Luc,” the marksman replied after a moment of gazing in the indicated direction.

It didn't escape Athos' notice that Aramis assumed immediately he was speaking of Luc when he mentioned the former monk's charges, but the captain didn't comment on it; he simply stowed the knowledge away for later.

“Yes, it's him. And look, isn't the girl little Marie?” Porthos agreed with Athos, nodding and waving his hand vaguely into the direction where market stands lined up under the archways of Saint-Sulpice. Then his hand, holding a carrot, returned to his mouth and he took another bite.

“Where? I can't --- Oh!” Aramis finally detected what his brothers were talking about. More quietly he uttered, “That's Luc and Marie.”

“What are they doing here in Paris?” Athos asked, not addressing anyone in particular, “I mean besides apparently trying to steal a loaf of bread?” Looking out from under the brim of his hat he studied the scene at the far end of the market.

Luc, looking every bit like a guttersnipe trying to steal from the market stalls while the owners were looking away, turned his head left and right, then he let his gaze sweep over the market bustle, studying the merchants and market goers. Marie, meanwhile, distracted the woman behind the bread stall, the little girl fidgeting at the other end from where the boy was, catching the saleswoman's attention. With a swift motion Luc grabbed one of the loaves from the baskets and had it hidden underneath his jacket in no time, his face a study of innocence. Quickly he made his way away from the stall, throwing an acute glance over his shoulder to see if anyone had caught him stealing. Marie stopped her charade the moment she saw Luc walking away and made a beeline for her companion. As soon as she reached the young man, Luc grabbed her hand, dragging her along with him. They headed directly towards where the Musketeers lingered in the shadow of the guildhall.

“What the...?” Aramis muttered angrily, his face morphing into an irate storm cloud. “I've taught them better than to steal.” He took a couple of steps into the direction of the approaching kids, then his expression shifted, softening from angry to startled. “What _are_ they doing here?”

Athos and Porthos abandoned their spots in the shade, following their comrade into the square.

“Luc!” Aramis yelled over the crowded market, trying to catch the boy's attention.

Luc didn't hear him, not unexpected given how noisy the market was. Suddenly he stopped and stood with Marie clutched to his side, looking around. With his next step he changed direction, steering to the left side of the market where the Rue de Canettes offered the fastest escape route away from the market.

“Luc! Marie!” Aramis called again, but neither the boy nor Marie showed any reaction. “Luc, wait!”

“He looks a little worse for wear, if you ask me,” Athos muttered, trailing behind the marksman. “What in God's name are they doing here in Paris?”

“Oi!” Porthos shouted, shoving a man out of his way. “Look where you're walking!”

Whether it had been Porthos' booming voice or Aramis' continued calling or something entirely different they didn't know, but Marie suddenly turned her head towards where the Musketeers were approaching. Her face lit up as soon as she recognized them and she started waving frantically. When they were near enough, they could hear her shouting, “Porthos, Porthos!”, just before she broke free from Luc and started running towards the big man.

Luc had turned to see what or whom Marie was yelling at, spotting the three Musketeers the moment Marie broke away from him. He froze on the spot, staring at the approaching men.

Marie flung herself into the big man's arms as soon as she reached Porthos, the latter gently lifting her up. “Hello, little one, nice to see you again.”

Marie was all smiles and pressed her small body to Porthos while he trailed behind his friends until they reached Luc.

“What are you doing here?” Aramis inquired, looking the boy up and down. “It's good to see you, my friend,” he added after a moment, stepping closer to the boy, arms outstretched for a hug, but Luc shied away from Aramis.

“That's none of your business. Come, Marie, we need to go.” Luc sidestepped Aramis' arms and reached for Marie. The little girl, however, had no intention of leaving Porthos' embrace, pressing even deeper into the Musketeer's strong arms.

“Luc, what's wrong? Why do you say that?” Aramis looked puzzled due to the harsh reply, his gaze switching between Marie and Luc. “What are you and Marie doing here in Paris? Why are you here and not in Douai?”

“It's none of your business, Aramis, I already told you that. Why would you be interested in us? You left with your Musketeer brothers. What concern is it of yours if we're here or not?” The words were like daggers, picked to hurt, and Luc gazed at Aramis with a cold stare. His voice, however, betrayed the boy; there was a tremor in it, hinting at suppressed emotions, and exhaustion.

Aramis was taken aback. “Why do you say that?” He shared a quick glance with Athos. “You know I care for you!”

Luc kept staring at Aramis hostilely, and it was clear he wouldn't say any more. Also obvious was that if Marie had not abandoned Luc for Porthos, the boy would have turned around immediately and left. Now it seemed he didn't dare walk away without her. Or walk away on his own.

“They are all dead, the others. It's only Luc and me, we got away,” Marie's clear voice carried over the noise around them. “Luc said we go find you. You will help us.”

All eyes turned to Marie, whose gaze switched from Aramis to Luc and back.

“What?” Aramis rasped, staring wide-eyed at the little girl, then back to Luc. “Is this true? How? Why?”

When Luc still refused to answer, Athos grabbed the young man's shoulder, urging, “Luc, what happened in Douai? If you are angry with Aramis don't let Marie suffer because of it. Are either of you injured?”

Luc shook his head, and the Musketeers could see a shimmer of tears in the boy's eyes, despite his obvious effort to look as angry and off with Aramis as he could manage in the situation.

Aramis stepped up to the boy, carefully putting his hand on Luc's other shoulder, mirroring Athos' stance “Tell me. Please,” he added softly.

“The others are all dead,” Luc stuttered out, his voice barely more than a whisper. “He came back, not long after you had gone. He killed everyone, only Marie and I escaped.” Luc dragged a dirty sleeve over his nose to wipe away the snot that had appeared; the tears he was managing to keep at bay as yet. “It was the same one I saw killing the abbot. The hooded man.”

Silence fell between them, making the busy market noises appear all the louder.

“Luc says it wouldn't have happened if you had stayed with us. They would still be alive.” Marie's eyes focused on Aramis, her expression too knowing and earnest for such a young girl. “But he's wrong. You'd be dead as well....” her voice trailed off. Almost inaudibly, she breathed, “He's angry with you because you left.” Marie's eyes darted to Luc and back to Aramis, guilt written on her face for having betrayed her friend. “But I'm glad you did. I'm glad you're alive,” she whispered.

“Marie,” Luc hissed, but his tone lacked the fever and ire he might have wanted to add to his voice; he knew she told the truth. He glanced to Aramis. “You could have saved them. You're a soldier, you could have fought and defended them. It wouldn't have happened if you had stayed.”

Luc's statement pierced Aramis right to the heart.

Porthos shifted Marie to his other side and moved closer to Aramis, trying to aid the other with his presence. Porthos knew he had hurt his friend with what he had said to him in Douai, and back in Paris, the way he had acted and still did sometimes. He had wanted to hurt him, to make Aramis feel what he had felt when they had had to go to war without their comrade. Deep in his heart the big man knew he'd acted childishly and sulkily, that Aramis had had no choice, that he had never intended to hurt one of his brothers. Porthos knew this, but it was not easy to forgive and forget, for too long he had nursed a grudge against his friend. It was what had kept him going, without this grudge he might not have been able to survive the war, and now it was hard to shake it off. But he wouldn't stand seeing anyone else hurt Aramis the same way he had.

“Aramis,” Porthos appealed urgently to his friend. “Let's go back to the garrison. The kids are hungry, they need something to eat and a place to rest. Here's not the right place to discuss these things.”

Athos looked past Porthos to where he could see d'Artagnan heading their way. “It seems d'Artagnan has fulfilled his mission and handed over the missive. No need to linger here any longer.”

The Gascon's brows almost met his hairline when he took in the scene before him, but one look at his captain stalled any questions he might have had upon seeing Luc and Marie here with his companions. Instead he reported, “The message is delivered and there's a short reply note I have to return.” He patted his doublet where the letter was stowed away. “I'd better deliver it to Tréville right away.”

Athos removed his hand from Luc's shoulder after squeezing it reassuringly and acknowledged d'Artagnan's report with a nod. “We return to the garrison and afterwards you can proceed to the palace.”

The captain turned on his heels to lead the way back to the Musketeer's quarters, d'Artagnan falling in line with their leader, but his attention shifted to Luc, and then Marie. “Hello, Luc, nice to see you again. _Salut,_ Marie.” He had already sensed the tense atmosphere between the boy and the Musketeers before he had reached the group, but he couldn't just ignore the kids. He wondered what had happened and why both children had turned up in Paris. Athos, however, had made it clear his curiosity would have to wait until they were back at the garrison.

They made their way back with Athos and d'Artagnan in the lead and Luc, walking with his head down and sagging shoulders, behind them. Aramis walked beside Luc, but a step or two behind so as not to intimidate the youngster, the marksman's eyes continuously drifting to the boy. Porthos had lifted Marie over his head to sit on his shoulders and the girl had squeaked with joy. Now the two of them were bringing up the rear and Marie's chattering was the only sound breaking the silence that surrounded the small group like a black cloud.

Marie told Porthos of the adversities and adventures they had met on their way from Douai to Paris, and it all was seen through the eyes of a child, unaware of how serious the situations had been. Two things they could read between the lines in Marie's blithe narrations stuck out strikingly, and each man stowed them away for later. One was the hostilities and hunger the children had experienced on their trip, the other thing was that at some point during their journey Luc must have received an injury which he was obviously hiding well.

*******

When they entered the garrison, Athos immediately made his way to his office, signaling to Aramis to take care of the kids and to d'Artagnan to follow him. Before the men had reached their usual table in the courtyard, Constance emerged from the kitchen. Catching sight of Luc and Marie among her returning Musketeers she jerked to a halt, her eyes moving to d'Artagnan for an explanation. 

The Gascon shook his head slighty, indicating to his wife he would explain later, then he covered the distance between him and her and planted a kiss on her lips. It was an effective way to silence her, or so d'Artagnan thought, but Constance would have none of it. Even though she returned the kiss she shoved her husband quickly away. One look at him and he could read all the questions she had in her eyes. Before the Gascon could react, or Constance open her mouth, Aramis spoke.

“Constance, meet Luc and Marie. They are hungry and exhausted, they have traveled a long way. Do you have something to fill their bellies?” The tone with which Aramis spoke conveyed so much more to Constance than the simple request for food.

“Of course, we've a lamb stew over the fire and the bread is just ready. I'll bring you all something of it.” With a last glance to her husband she turned and hurried back to the kitchen.

“D'Artagnan,” Athos called from the balcony. “I'm waiting.”

The Gascon rolled his eyes, making sure Athos could see it from where he stood above them and made his way up.

Porthos had placed Marie on the bench, taking the seat beside her. Luc was still standing in the courtyard a few feet away from the table, looking around and taking in everything. Aramis gently took his arm, prompting the young man to look at the former monk. “Take a seat, Constance will bring something to eat and drink.”

Luc hesitated as if he wanted to reply something, but finally turned and slumped down on the bench opposite Marie. “I never thought I would one day see the Musketeer's garrison,” he said quietly and with no small amount of awe in his voice, and then, facing Aramis, “You look so different in your uniform. So different from when you were--,” he fished for words for a second or two, and finally simply ended with, “Brother Aramis.”

Porthos barked a laugh, unable to stop himself. “And it's fitting him so much better than a monk's habit, that's for sure.” He winked at Marie who nodded animatedly.

Before Aramis could respond Constance returned with a tray loaded with cups and bowls and fresh bread. Brujon trailed behind her with the huge cauldron that usually hung over the kitchen fire. Whether Constance had run out of soup tureens or whether she thought their hunger would be so exorbitant that it was pointless to bring only a bowl, they didn't know, but Porthos' eyes lit up seeing the iron pot being placed on the table in front of him. Constance handed out bowls and cups and spoons and started ladling soup into the bowls, starting with Marie's. With her free hand she slapped Porthos' hands away when he grabbed for the bread, tutting at him. “Wait until it's your turn,” she hissed, shoving a full bowl of soup towards Marie with a smile.

Aramis poured out drinks, water for the young'uns and wine for him and Porthos. When Constance looked at him, inquiring if he wanted a bowl of soup, he shook his head and moved to the post beside Porthos, leaning against it. Silently he watched the others eat, Luc and Marie virtually gulping down the food as if they feared it would be taken away from them again at any minute. They were downright famished and Aramis wondered when they had last eaten anything. His eyes hardly ever left Luc and his thoughts drifted back to his time at the monastery, and the first time he had met the young man.

Athos and d'Artagnan came back down, the Gascon making his way over to the stable to get a horse. In addition to the letter he had to deliver to Tréville, his doublet now held a couple of missives for the Minister of War as well, handed over to him by the captain together with a few instructive words.

Athos waited until d'Artagnan had vanished through the barn door, then his attention turned towards the table, and the people sitting there. He strolled over to Aramis who was startled out of his thoughts when a shadow fell on him. Aramis looked up. A tiny motion of Athos' head indicated his friend should follow him a few feet away from the table, where they could talk undisturbed.

Both Musketeers strolled over to the stable from which d'Artagnan emerged. Aramis grabbed for the horse's reins, holding the beast until the Gascon had mounted. “Give my greetings to Tréville,” the marksman said, adding lightly, “and the Queen if you see her.” His innocent grin countered d'Artagnan's scowl.

D'Artagnan didn't bother to answer, instead he spurred his horse, glowering at Aramis and throwing a last glance at Athos.

Athos, who had long since given up commenting on Aramis' unhealthy liaison with the Queen, or the marksman's behavior in regard to that, contented himself with the poignant look he had honed over the years he has spent dealing with Aramis. Then he nodded towards the table. “Do we know what happened?”

Aramis shook his head, following his captain's line of gaze. “No. They are famished, let them eat first, and settle. Afterwards, we'll talk to Luc.” Aramis watched Constance serve a second fill to Luc, or maybe it was already the third, and he hoped they wouldn't have to throw up later if they ate too much so fast. Marie ate far slower now than the boy, nibbling at a chunk of bread at the moment, and Aramis was convinced the girl hadn't gone as hungry as Luc during their journey. The young man had certainly made sure Marie got the lion's share, if not all, of the meager food they had been able to scrape together. “Let them get some rest first.”

Athos studied Aramis for a moment. “You care a lot for the boy,” Athos said casually, his gaze shifting from Aramis to Luc and back again. “He means a lot to you.”

“Yes, he does, of course. They all do. Did,” Aramis added after a second, realizing that except for Luc and Marie, all the other children were gone. As were the monks, if what the kids had reported was true. He still couldn't believe it. He shook his head. “Of course they do, I cared for most of them for years, they were--. They mean a lot to me. For them I was...” Aramis trailed off.

“Aramis, don't do this. None of this is your fault. You wouldn't have prevented this if you had stayed.” Athos' gaze bore into the other's eyes. “Your decision to come back with us was right. You are a Musketeer, not a monk.”

“I abandoned them, just like I abandoned you. If I had stayed, I could have fought. Whoever this man is, he wouldn't have been able to kill them all. With me, they would have had a chance.”

“That's not right and you know it. You didn't abandon us, and you didn't abandon them, no matter what Porthos tries to make you believe. He was frustrated and disappointed, and he let his anger get the better of him. He didn't mean anything he said to you back then in the monastery.”

“I hurt him. I walked away from him and he was right in what he said. I _had_ his back, always, he never needed to worry about it, and then I turned my back on all of you. Just like I did with the monks and the children.”

Athos heaved a frustrated sigh. “Don't, Aramis. Don't blame yourself for everything bad that ever happens to anyone near you or close to your heart. It's not your fault and you did not abandon them. You left because your place is here. You spent four years pondering over what you are, who you are, what you've done or not done or what you might have to atone for. You said for yourself, God showed you your place in this world. I heard you, back there in Douai,” Athos added softly, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder.

Aramis glanced sideways to study Athos' face for a moment. Nodding, he replied, “I know you're right. And I know my place is here. I never wanted to be anything else than a Musketeer, this is what I'm made for, that's what I realized in the years in Douai. Still, it doesn't change the fact I could have prevented what happened if I had stayed. No matter the circumstances. In that, Luc is right.”

Athos squeezed the marksman's shoulder before he let go. “Luc is frustrated, he feels hurt. He adores you. He looks up to you. Naturally he wished you'd stayed, even though he might never admit it. I don't know what you've been to him when you were the monk Aramis, but I've seen how his eyes lit up when he realized the stories about Porthos and d'Artagnan and me were true, and how he looked at you once he understood you were one of us. The Musketeer Aramis. He looks up to you, sees something like a father figure in you. Boys around his age need someone they can look up to, they can turn to.” Athos sighed once more. “Believe me, _mon ami,_ I know what I'm talking about.”

Despite all the years they had served together, the deep friendship, the brotherhood they shared, Athos had never revealed much about his past. Well, none of them had, and it had nothing to do with trust. It just had never been necessary. Aramis was sure Athos referred to his former life when he talked about father figures and the need to look up to someone. If he referred to his own father, his brother Thomas or himself, Aramis didn't know, nor the role Athos had played in it. But from the short flicker of sadness scurrying over the former _comte's_ face, Aramis was convinced it involved not only the brother Athos never mentioned.

“He is a good boy. A clever boy; everything I taught him, he soaked it all up. He helped me a lot with the children, too.” Aramis eyes grew distant, remembering his time at the monastery, when he was responsible for the education of the children, and their leisure time. The stories he had told them and how they had gathered around him and hang on his every word. “Only his obsession with the Musketeers was a thing we quarreled over continuously,” Aramis said with a smile in his voice. “I couldn't get it out of him, his adoration for the Musketeers, his wish to one day be one of them. One of us.” Fondly he looked over to where Luc had finished his last helping, scraping the rest of the soup out of the bowl with a chunk of bread. “The attack from the Spanish at the monastery cured him, however. And look, now he's here.”

Both men watched Constance gathering the empty bowls and returning everything to the kitchen with the help of Brujon. Aramis took a gulp from the cup in his hand. “Let's see what they have to tell.”

Constance returned to the table, addressing Marie. “You, little lady, are coming with me. You'll have to soak for at least half an hour to get all the dirt off you and then we'll see if I can get a comb through your hair. Come,” she said to Marie, opening her arms to the girl. Marie quickly looked at Porthos, who nodded reassuringly with a wink, then at Luc who nodded too. The girl climbed over the bench to Constance, grabbing her hand. Madame d'Artagnan turned to Luc, her free hand on her hip, and a friendly scowl only Constance could manage to display on her face. “And you, young man, will do the same. Believe me, I won't hesitate in the slightest to scrub you from head to toe myself, so you'd better make sure you're properly bathed the next time I see you.” She said it in a friendly and soft voice, but the subliminal message stuck with Luc nonetheless. He nodded frantically. “Yes, madame!”

“Make sure he bathes and gets fresh clothes,” Constance instructed Aramis who had stepped up behind Luc, before she turned around and led Marie to the washhouse.

Luc craned his head and looked up at Aramis.

Aramis put a hand on the young man's shoulder, and this time Luc neither flinched nor tried to shake it off. “Have you had enough?”

Luc nodded, and his face spoke of the premonition of what had to come next.

“Good,” Aramis replied and rounded the bench, taking a seat beside the boy.

Athos took the seat abandoned by Marie next to Porthos, grabbing a cup and filling it with wine. He didn't drink but held it between his hands, looking at Luc. “Please, tell us what happened after we left Douai.”

Luc settled his eyes on his hands and started reporting in a low voice. “After you were gone, we worked hard to get the damage repaired, the courtyard cleaned, everything back to how it was before. Even Froilán and Yvette helped.”

The Musketeers heard how the boy's voice caught on the names of the youngest of the children, but they didn't react to it, just waited for Luc to continue.

“Two days--, no, three. Three days after you had departed, Marie and I went to collect herbs before dawn. Brother Jacques sent us. He knew how good Marie was with everything you'd taught her.” A short glance at Aramis, then his eyes returned to the tabletop.

“You went to collect herbs before sunrise?” Porthos asked, incredulously. “Why?”

“Because,” Aramis replied before Luc could answer, “there are some herbs that need to be collected before the sun is up, with the dew still fresh They are only good for use if they are cut at dawn. I presume Brother Jacques sent you for St. John's wort and French meadow-rue?”

Luc nodded. “He woke us shortly after matins and we left when it was still dark. Marie knows where the best St. John's wort grows, but it's about half an hour walk from the abbey.”

Aramis nodded. He knew all the places around the abbey where one could find the best herbs and plants.

“First we cut St. John's wort at the small creek, with the first light of dawn, and then we looked for the French meadow-rue. We had enough of everything even before the sun was up behind the hills and so we went back shortly after lauds. When the abbey's wall came into view I had the feeling something was wrong, though I couldn't make out what. Maybe it was too quiet or... I don't know. The gate was open, which was unusual for the early hour, but not necessarily alarming. Maybe pilgrims had arrived or someone from the village. I asked Marie to hide and wait for me and instead of using the gate I went in through the tunnel.” Luc looked up to see if the Musketeers remembered the secret entrance he referred to. “I didn't see anyone, not until I came to the courtyard. Brother Alfrid lay under the archway, in a pool of blood.” Luc's voice broke and he swallowed hard for a couple of times.

Aramis put a hand on the boy's arm, squeezing it lightly. “You're doing well.”

Luc grabbed for his cup and took a few gulps of water, setting the cup back to the table afterwards, his hands remaining wrapped around it. The silence stretched while he stared at his hands.

When Luc showed not the slightest inclination to continue with his report, Aramis grabbed for his arm again. “Luc, what happened after you found Brother Alfrid?”

A slight tremor ran through the boy's body and he took a deep breath. Eyes still glued to his hands which now played with the cup, he continued. “While I still wondered what I should do, run to Brother Alfrid to see if he was still alive or find the others, a man emerged from the main building. He had the hood of his cloak drawn over his head, but when he looked around I could see his face. It was the same man who killed the abbot. Who had come to the monastery a few days before with the Spanish. He has,” Luc swallowed hard, “he has all these rings on his fingers, and, and --- it was him, the same man. He looked around as if searching for something, before he walked away. He kicked at Brother Alfrid on his way out.” Luc's voice had dropped to a whisper, making it hard to understand him. “Then he left through the gate. I ran back to the western wall with the small holes in it, where you can see the slope and parts of the bridge. He must've left his horse outside because a minute or so later I saw him riding away.” Luc paused again, but before anyone could say or ask something, he carried on. “I waited for, I don't know, five minutes or so. Then I ran down to the gate and closed it and looked after Brother Alfrid. He,” Luc shook his head, covering his mouth with both hands as if trying to keep the words inside.

Aramis' hand moved upwards until it rested around the youngster's nape. Lightly, his thumb started caressing the smooth skin just underneath the boy's ear. It was enough to calm Luc to the point that he could go on with his account.

His hands returned to the cup on the table. “I went to the chapel where I thought the brothers must have gathered for lauds.” Again he broke off, shaking his head, and this time a few tears spilled, suddenly and unwanted. “He had killed them all. I don't know, shot them or stabbed them in the back while they prayed. They....” Luc trailed off, not able to finish the sentence. Shamefacedly he wiped away the few tears that had managed to find their way down the dirt-covered cheeks.

Aramis leaned back on the bench, raking his fingers through his hair. Dread pooled in his stomach; he didn't want to hear more. He didn't want Luc to have to recount what must come next. He didn't want him having to remember what scenes must have unfolded in front of his eyes. He didn't want to _hear_ it, but he knew there was no way around it. Aramis' gaze came to rest on Porthos opposite him, and there was a warmth and empathy in his brother's eyes he hadn't seen for years. Most certainly not seen since he had been reunited with the Musketeers a few weeks ago. Again at last, the sole presence of Porthos was once more the tower of strength, the support and aid that had carried Aramis through thick and thin, for years and years, and Aramis thanked him with a tiny nod and a small smile.

Athos watched Aramis, leaving the decision to him whether they should prompt the boy to tell more or not.

With a voice scratchy with emotion, Aramis finally asked, “What happened next? What--” He had to swallow. “Where were the children?”

Luc took two deep breaths and raised his head, staring at the space between Athos and Porthos on the wall behind them. Then, as if wanting to get over with it as quickly as possible, he sputtered, “I was there for I don't know how long, my legs wouldn't move. But suddenly I remembered that... I thought I'd best look into the dormitory first, maybe he had them pinioned and imprisoned and... I... I found them in the... They were in their beds, all of them. Only Adele had been up already, she had fetched washing water.” Two quick, shallow breaths and the fruitless effort to swallow the lump in his throat. “She lay on the floor beside the wash stand. Her throat was cut,” he whispered, turning his head and looking at Aramis, eyes blown wide.

Aramis put his arm around the boy's shoulder, pulling him over and holding him tight. Luc didn't cry, but Aramis could feel the tremors running through the thin body, and he pressed the boy's head even closer to his chest.

None of the Musketeers spoke but they shared glances, all thinking the same. It was one thing to kill generals and common soldiers, to attack Musketeers and to smuggle gunpowder behind enemy lines. It was a nefarious crime to kill innocent men of God. But slaughtering children spoke of an abysmal malice and coldness none of them had ever experienced before. It was such an atrocious act of inhumanness it made them feel sick to the core.

“No matter how long it takes me to find this man, he will pay for his crimes,” Aramis rasped. “Even if it leads me to the gates of Hell.”

“He's already dead,” Porthos stated in a flat tone. “He just doesn't know yet.”

Athos only nodded. He wondered what monster had crossed their path back there at the monastery, and if they had unleashed its fury when they had thwarted its plans. Maybe the man had relied on the fact that Marie and Luc would come to Paris and tell the Musketeers what had happened. Maybe this was a message he had sent them specifically. See what you have evoked.....


	2. Chapter 2

“I'm sorry, Luc.” Aramis' voice cut through the quiet. “I'm deeply sorry I wasn't there to help you all. I might not have been able to prevent what happened, but I could have tried.” 

Luc shifted, bringing his head up so he could face Aramis, but stayed clung to the older man.

“But I'm a Musketeer, not a monk. It took me years to admit it although I guess I had known it all the time. I had to leave, although I'll regret forever not having stayed a few days longer.” Aramis turned his head to look at Luc, his voice growing softer. “There was no way I could have taken you with me, I told you why.”

Athos had always wondered what the two of them had talked about when Aramis had taken his leave from the monastery. They had conversed in hushed voices in a corner of the churchyard, the boy's face an unreadable mask. They had parted with a long embrace and the boy had stayed in the shadow and not returned to the other children. When they had waved their good-byes, Luc had not waved back. Now Athos could guess what their topic of conversion had been, and he felt sympathetic for both Aramis and the boy. Parting had obviously not been easy for either of them.

“I know, I'm sorry for what I said,” Luc replied, finally pushing away from Aramis. If he felt embarrassed for having clung to the older man like a child, he didn't let it show. “I didn't mean it, none of it. I'm so sorry, please forgive me.”

“There's nothing you have to ask forgiveness for, _mon fils,_ ” Aramis responded quietly.

There was movement to the left and they glimpsed Constance leaving the washhouse with Marie in her arms, disappearing in their private quarters a moment later.

“Come,” Aramis sighed, rising from the bench, “I've promised Madame d'Artagnan to see to that you are spick and span before you rest your head on her clean linen. I'll show you where you can wash.” He rounded the bench and grabbed Luc's arm, hauling him up. “If we're lucky Constance will have left a kettle of fresh water over the fire.” With a last, meaningful look over his shoulder towards his brothers, Aramis dragged Luc along with him to the washhouse.

The monks had been very strict when it came to nudity, especially with regard to the children, so it was clear Luc would never think of undressing with Aramis around. Instead, the marksman made sure Luc had everything he needed, including the biggest towel he could find and ordered Luc to leave his dirty clothing beside the tub. Constance would look through the garments later, deciding which pieces were worth washing and what was beyond repair.

“In the meantime, I'll try to find something that fits you,” Aramis said, his mind already going through his possibilities. He would ask Clairmont for a spare pair of trousers, the recruit being the smallest of the men currently inhabiting the garrison. He doubted that the stable boy had any spare garments beside what he carried on his body. Aramis knew he'd have to hurry; Luc always had been quick with his morning ablutions and during the weekly washing day in the monastery's washhouse. There was no reason why the boy would suddenly start to linger here in the unfamiliar garrison.

Aramis was back within ten minutes with a pair of Clairmont's old working trousers from home and one of Aramis' own spare shirts. Luc was hovering beside the fire, wrapped in the towel and half hidden behind the folding screen which had turned up at the washing room after Constance had taken over the garrison's reins. From the boy's short hair, rivulets of water dropped to the floor.

“Here, it's probably too big for you, but it'll have to do for the time being.”

Luc made no move to grab the clothes and Aramis heaved an internal sigh. “I'll wait outside for you,” he stated, gently putting the clothes down on the stool before returning to the door.

Outside, he leaned against the doorframe, gazing into the darkening sky. He didn't have to wait long until Luc emerged, dressed in the fresh clothes which clung to his lean body like rags to a scarecrow. Aramis looked him up and down, then he threw his arm around the small shoulders and dragged Luc along to the sleeping quarters.

Closing the door behind him, Aramis gestured to the bed. “Take a seat,” the Musketeer ordered and busied himself with flint and candle until the room was illuminated. “Now take your shirt off.” Aramis planted himself in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, waiting.

“What?” Luc sputtered, staring at Aramis wide-eyed, uncertain what his former guardian was up to.

“I know you're hiding an injury underneath there so off with the shirt and let me take a look.”

Luc opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the elder man.

“There's no choice for you in this, so best let's get it over with quickly.”

Luc's shoulders sagged, well aware he'd never stand a chance against a Musketeer who certainly would have ways and means to see his plans through. Even as Brother Aramis the man had been most convincing with all his arguments and demands. Luc started unbuttoning the shirt. “It's nothing, really. It's as good as healed. You don't have to...” he trailed off when he saw the expression on the Musketeer's face and silently finished unbuttoning and shrugging out of the shirt. Two red, swollen, infected marks on his right shoulder were revealed.

Aramis closed the distance to the bed with two bounding strides and sat down on the boy's right side. “May I?” he asked, waiting for Luc's permission to touch the wounds.

Luc nodded, peering at the marks on his shoulder as if he felt personally offended by them for being there in the first place, and putting him into this situation.

Aramis probed and palpated, trying to be as gentle as possible, though he knew it would hurt anyway. The wounds showed signs of infection and ran deep. “What happened?” he asked casually, reaching for his medicinal satchel on the night stand.

“Umh, I wasn't fast enough?” Luc replied, the corners of his mouth twitching with a smile. Then he sharply sucked in air.

Aramis' hands stilled for a moment. “Fast enough with what?” he wanted to know, opening his bag one-handed.

If it was possible, Luc's shoulders slumped even more. “Escaping the pitchfork of the farmer I tried to steal some carrots from. Sorry,” the boy mumbled.

“Sorry for what?” Aramis questioned in a soft tone. “For stealing or because you weren't able to avoid the pitchfork?” There was a telltale sparkle in his eyes which betrayed him, but for Luc it was hard to detect in the flickering light.

Luc hesitated for a second before he answered sheepishly, “Both, I guess?”

Aramis tried to stifle his smile. “You know I can't approve of you stealing, no matter how hard the circumstances, I've taught you better. Thou shalt not steal. But next time make sure you're faster. Right?”

Luc grinned relieved, nodding animatedly. “Promise.”

“I need to get the infection out and it will burn a little when I apply the salve, but it will soon be better than before, believe me.” Aramis worked quickly and as gently as possible. He removed scabs and affected tissue, applied a salve he had ready for use and bound the wounds. When he was finished, he told Luc to put his shirt on again, and realized the boy was having problems staying awake, his eyelids drooping with fatigue.

“Never mind, just leave it off for sleeping. Here,” Aramis folded back the blanket. “You can sleep in my bed, I'll use one of the bunks in the dormitory for the recruits. Or,” Aramis hurriedly added when he saw the alarmed expression on Luc's face, “I can just stay here. I've slept worse than on a chair, and I'll have you know my chairs are rather comfortable. Nothing compared to what the _comte_ called his own in his old quarters,” he muttered and then, scarcely audibly, “though undoubtedly not in the least comparable to the seating accommodation _my_ old quarters used to hold.” He sighed wistfully.

“No, you sleep in the bed and I,” a big yawn interrupted Luc's statement, “will sleep on the floor. I don't mind.” He got ready to rise but Aramis gently pushed him down again until the boy's upper body rested on the bed.

“Look, if the going gets rough, the bed is big enough for two. If I feel chilly in the chair I'll just climb in the bed beside you. Okay?”

Luc nodded with closed eyes. He didn't look like there was any energy left in him to rise from the bed anyway, had Aramis asked him to. “Aramis?”

“Hm?” The Musketeer lifted the boy's legs onto the bed and spread the blanket over him. Just when he had the impression Luc was already asleep, the youngster spoke again.

“What will become of Marie and me? We've nowhere to go. Can I… can I not stay with you?”

Aramis looked fondly down to where Luc was slowly dropping off to sleep. “We'll talk about it tomorrow. I'm sure we'll work out something,” he replied, though his words belied him; he had no idea what they would do with Marie and Luc in Paris. “Sleep now.”

Silently, he packed away what he had used for treating the wounds and blew out all candles except for one. Before sitting down, he turned the chair so he was able to see the sleeping form on his bed. After a while, when a soft, regular breathing filled the room and Aramis was certain Luc was fast asleep, he rose and left the room.

*******

Aramis pulled the door shut behind him with a soft thud and walked over to where Athos was leaning against the balcony railing, overlooking the dark courtyard. The former _comte_ must have acquired that habit from Tréville, together with the captain's office and the captain's title, Aramis mused, propping his elbows on the railing beside Athos. “You smoke?” he asked, eyeing the soft glow of the pipe in Athos' hand. 

“One needs a bad habit.” Athos shrugged. “And drinking doesn't serve as one any more.”

Aramis nodded and both men fell quiet again, listening to the night's sounds. It was a companionable silence they shared, and both savored it.

“I know what you're thinking,” Aramis said after a while.

Athos turned sideways, just enough to throw a glance into the other's direction. “So?”

“You're wondering why, or if, I still believe in a deity who is so cruel as to let innocent children and men of God be butchered, without doing anything about it. Without at least holding the one responsible for it accountable for.”

Athos turned more so he could fully face Aramis, the other's face half-hidden in the shadows. “Is it what you think _I'm_ thinking, or is it rather what _you're_ pondering on?”

Aramis looked at Athos for a moment before his lips curled into a smile. “Isn't that the same?”

Now it was Athos who eyed his friend for a few seconds before he nodded, one of the corners of his mouth curving into a half-smile. Indeed, over the years they had served together they had become so close and intimate with each other that they could finish the other's sentence or foresee what one of them would do without thinking twice. “And what is your answer to what we think?”

“It's not God's fault what happened nor is He responsible for it. He had no stake in what came to pass. The Lord gave mankind life and a free will. What they make of it is not his decision any more. It was a man who killed them, based on vile motives, not God's will. Besides, as much and grievously as I mourn the death of the children, and the brothers, God showed his omnipresent might, he showed mercy. Luc and Marie live.”

“They live, yes, but God has nothing to do with it. It was plainly coincidence they were not at the monastery when the man returned, or luck,” Athos replied, more fiercely. He refused to give God credit for their survival, not in the face of so much grief.

“Was it?” Aramis asked, nondescriptly, turning his head to look over the poorly lit courtyard. “Marie has a shining talent when it comes to herbs, plants, and their use for healing. She sucked in every word Brother Jacques or I taught her about the use of herbs, their healing powers, the handling of them and how to mix different ingredients.” Aramis words flowed over the yard as if he was speaking to himself and Athos had to strain to catch every word before the light breeze took it away. “She knows St. John's wort needs to be harvested when it's dry, a good time for it the late, sunny afternoon. Otherwise it's useless, at least for the healing of wounds. And that's the main purpose we used it for in the monastery.”

“And the other? French meadow-rue?” Athos asked, unsure where this was heading.

“There's no specification, you can pluck it whenever you want.”

“But you said --”

“There _are_ herbs you need to pick before dawn, or around midnight, or only on St. John's Day, but not those.”

“How did you know they were sent to bring back those two?”

Aramis quickly glanced at Athos, then raised his head to look at the stars at the night sky. “I knew we were short of them. If I hadn't left I would have gone out myself within the next few days to stock up our provisions. If they were sent to gather herbs, it would have been those two.”

“Maybe the Brother who sent them didn't know about the specific rules?” Athos made a weak attempt to bring logic into this conversation.

“Brother Jacques is--, was the most versed man with regard to healing herbs I've ever met. He had studied the Greeks and was a connoisseur of the complete works of Hildegard von Bingen. Believe me when I say he knew everything there is to know about herbs and their handling.”

“Then why? Why send them away at this godforsaken time of night for a useless task?”

Aramis shrugged his shoulders. For him, the answer was obvious. “God moves in mysterious ways, _mon ami_. Who am I to question his actions?” He turned to face Athos again. “They live, and I thank God for it.”

Athos was perplexed, but he nodded and tapped his pipe against the railing to get rid of the remaining tobacco. The pipe had died out while he had listened to Aramis. They could ask Marie, sometime later, why she hadn't objected and pointed out to the monk there was no need to go before dawn. But Athos had the feeling it would yield nothing.

There was movement and a soft noise to the right of them down in the yard.

“Do we need to worry why you're sneaking out of Madame d'Artagnan's bedchamber in the middle of the night, Porthos?” Athos demanded, quietly enough that the guard on night duty under the archway wouldn't hear him.

The movement stopped. The seconds stretched until there was activity again in the courtyard. D'Artagnan appeared, his arm draped around the bigger man's shoulder, hauling Porthos with him into the beam of light of the nearest torch. “You don't have to worry as long as Monsieur d'Artagnan is there to sneak out of the bedchamber together with him.”

Even though Athos knew the men down in the yard would hardly see it, he raised a brow nonetheless.

“Porthos wanted to make sure Marie was still safe and sound and sleeping quietly and peacefully in our bed and had not come to harm in the care of Madame d'Artagnan. In fact, it took him half an hour of swooning and adoring the sleeping girl to be convinced. Ouch!” D'Artagnan doubled over from the punch to the guts Porthos had dealt, the latter grinning and making his way upstairs.

D'Artagnan followed slightly slower, a scowl still on his face, muttering unintelligible things.

“Has it ever occurred to you that the children and the monks might have been killed to make a statement? To leave a message?” Porthos suggested, once they had all gathered on the balcony.

“You mean he killed them not out of revenge but to make a point?” d'Artagnan asked in surprise.

“I'm convinced that revenge had nothing to do with it, or if it had, then only in a minor way,” Athos stated. “I think it's a message, and a message sent our way. ‘You messed with me now look what it got you'. The man must have realized Luc was not among the children in the dormitory. If it was the same man from the attack, probably their leader, he knew there was a young man among the children, one who was clever enough to escape them twice. He must have detected the two empty beds, two used beds without children. What if he knew for sure Luc and Marie were away and would come back to find them all dead? And that they would turn to Paris, would try to find Aramis, and report about what had happened?”

“You mean this man killed _children_ just to send us a message?” D'Artagnan couldn't believe what Athos suggested. Didn't want to believe it.

“Yes. If he had wanted to avenge the loss of his men and the gunpowder, he'd have killed the monks, and let the children live. There was no need for him to kill them, even if they had seen him. No one kills innocent children to take vengeance. But this is no ordinary man, this man is a monster.” Athos felt a cold shiver running down his spine. “He relied on the fact that Luc would make his way to Paris and tell us about it. This way he shows us that we'll have to deal with an enemy more cruel and dangerous than anyone we've ever dealt with before. One, who doesn't even hesitate to slaughter children. The message is clear: no one interferes with his plans unpunished.” Athos hesitated for a moment before he added, “And as long as he can't get to us personally he'll kill those close or dear to us.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Aramis slipped out of the room the next morning, Luc was still asleep. At the monastery not only had the monks risen early, but also the children. He had seldom needed to wake them; at least Adele and Luc and Pierre had already been up and washed when Aramis had made his way over to the dormitory after lauds to wake the kids. If Luc still slept now, it was only a sign of the exhaustion caused by the last weeks' events. Aramis left a note on the side table, notifying Luc he was away on duty and requesting him to report to Madame d'Artagnan after he had woken up. 

While they shared a quick morning meal at their table, Aramis addressed the issue of Marie and Luc. It was not a problem to host them for a few days and provide food and clothing, but the garrison was no place for children, even if Constance had helped a lot to make the Musketeer's headquarters more homely and comfortable than it had ever been before.

“Luc asked what will become of him and Marie. Sooner or later we need to think of something,” Aramis said, raising the topic. He had thought about the two children until he had finally found sleep in the early morning hours. An idea had settled in his mind, but it was only half a solution, and he wasn't the one who was in the position to decide it.

“A Musketeer garrison in times of war is definitely no place for children,” Athos stated. “The city's orphanages are already bursting with war orphans; maybe they'll find shelter in another monastery in the countryside.” Athos eyed Aramis and knew it wouldn't be easy to find a solution the former monk would be content with. “Let's discuss it when we're back; we need to escort the _Duc d'Enghien_ to the palace. Tréville awaits him before midday bell tomorrow.”

Constance, who had served them bread, cheese and thinned wine and shared a few kisses with her husband in between, began to speak. “I might have an idea but I need to speak to someone first.”

Four pairs of eyes met hers, the question marks in the men's eyes almost visible. Apparently, they had no clue what she was talking about. She rolled her eyes. “Marie and Luc, weren't you just discussing their future? What's to become of them?”

“Right,” Athos said. “You've got an idea?”

Constance rolled her eyes again and huffed. “Yes, that's what I just said, didn't I? I have to check a few things first, but yes, I might have a solution.” Shaking her head, she muttered, “Men,” then turned and vanished into the d'Artagnan's private quarters, probably to check on Marie who was still asleep.

Aramis wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or worried that Constance seemed to have already made plans for Luc and Marie. He decided to wait and see with what she came up; if it was something he wouldn't be able to give his consent to in good conscience, he would say so, and try to push through his own plans for Luc. Unfortunately, it not only needed Athos' approval but likely also Constance's support. He sighed and put on his hat.

*******

As soon as the Musketeer rode through the archway the next day, Aramis spotted Luc who was busy polishing the horse tack. 

Hearing the clattering of hooves, the boy turned his head, his face lighting up when he saw who it was returning to the garrison. He abandoned his duty and came running over from the stables. “Madame d'Artagnan said you've been to the palace. Did you see the King? What is he like?” Luc got going as soon as he was within earshot. “Was your mission dangerous? I've helped Jacques mucking the stable and cleaning the bridles,” Luc said, changing topics within the blink of an eye. “I thought maybe I could help here, you know. Stay with you here at the garrison and help, um, with things. I'm good with horses and can work hard. Really, Aramis.” The boy's expression so full of expectation was hard to bear.

“Whoa!” Porthos shouted. “Don't you even breathe sometimes?” He grinned down at Luc and got off his horse.

“Sorry,” Luc muttered, turning to Aramis again, his eyes still full of hope. “I don't need much and could sleep in the stable and would work for what I eat. Please, Aramis.”

Aramis dismounted, handing over the reins to the stable boy. “Luc,” he said, throwing an arm around the boy's shoulder and guiding him away from the others. “I've been thinking about this, too. To start off with, I won't consent to you applying as recruit with the Musketeers, but maybe you can start working as a stable boy, or help in the kitchens, and then some day we can find employment and lodgings for you elsewhere. However, I'll have to speak with the cap-,” Aramis swallowed the last syllable, still not fully used to the fact that Tréville was no longer their captain, “with Athos first, and I can't promise he'll agree.”

Aramis had turned the problem of the kids' future over in his mind all the way to the Duke's estate, and then again on their way back. Finally, he had come to the conclusion his idea to let Luc stay at the garrison as a kind of stable boy or at least an additional helping hand would be the best solution. That way, he could keep an eye on Luc all the time and continue with the lessons he had given him back at the monastery whenever his duty permitted it. Luc would have a kind of home with at least one familiar face and a safe place where he could reach adulthood. More than once he had almost approached Athos during the trip, only to turn away in the last second; he knew Athos would have approved of his plan, but he wasn't sure about the decision the captain in him would have to make. His time back with his brothers had been too short for Aramis to risk having a falling-out with their captain or his friends; he had the feeling he was still walking on thin ice sometimes. And he knew he would definitely have to say a heated word or two if Athos wouldn't approve of the plan.

Now he stared into Luc's hopeful, smiling face and knew he had to risk picking a quarrel with the captain. He curled his hand around Luc's neck and dragged him close to his chest, planting a fleeting kiss on the boy's head. “I can't promise you anything, I'll have to speak with the captain. If it doesn't work, we'll think of something else, all right?”

Luc nodded and beamed at Aramis. It seemed his faith in the former monk was unabated.

“Come,” Aramis said, dragging Luc with him. He made a beeline for their usual table where the rest of the Inseparables had taken a seat. Marie had appeared from somewhere and was in the process of climbing onto Porthos' shoulders and Constance was whispering with her husband, the Gascon's smile growing bigger and bigger the longer his wife's whispering lasted.

“Athos, I've been thinking about the issue of Marie and Luc's future,” Aramis approached their captain. He had pulled off his hat and was now kneading it in his hands.

Athos had watched the marksman walk over, Luc in tow, and couldn't suppress a smirk. “You don't say, I would never have guessed.”

“What?” Aramis was slightly thrown off.

“Porthos and I had already started making bets on whether d'Artagnan would be able to shoot your hat off your head without you realizing it, so deeply in thought as you were on our trip.”

Aramis was dumbstruck.

Porthos laughed. “D'Artagnan's refusal to shoot is the only reason I wasn't able to squeeze any money out of Athos.”

Aramis looked to and fro between his friends, a puzzled expression on his face. He decided to pass over it for now. “Anyway,” he picked up again, “I thought Luc could stay here for a while, helping Jacques in the stables or in the kitchens or with any work that arises. He's hardworking and quick in understanding. He'd work for his food and he could share the room with me.”

There was a moment where Athos' eyes switched between Aramis and Luc. Slowly he removed his hat and scratched his neck. “I fear,” Athos replied and could see the eager smile slip from Luc's face and Aramis furrow his brow. He harrumphed. “I fear this is not my decision to make. If it was up to me I'd gladly welcome any helping hand in the garrison. Lord knows, with most of the Musketeers away at the front and the insufficient number of recruits we have, there's a lot of work that needs to be done. But since Madame d'Artagnan is responsible for the expenses and the assignment of work within the garrison, you'll have to ask her if she can agree to feed another hungry mouth.” Athos didn't even try to hide his smirk. However, it was swept away as fast as it had appeared once Constance had smacked him on the head.

“Oh, you can keep quiet. You're more of a fusspot when it comes to the garrison's finances than Tréville ever was. What do you think one can purchase in the market nowadays with the meager allowance you provide?”

D'Artagnan knew better than to grin at his wife's outburst and kept a poker face but Porthos' suppressed snickering could be heard, however hard he tried to cover it with faked coughs.

Constance turned to Aramis. “Luc has already showed how capable he is of working here. I see no reason why he shouldn't stay. Besides, we have enough vacant quarters, so you don't have to share your room.” Constance grinned and winked at Luc. “In fact, you can start right away by helping me peel potatoes.” When she saw the enthusiasm on Luc's face dim, she added, “Or you can help Jacques with the hay delivery.”

“Yes, Madame d'Artagnan,” Luc replied, turning immediately to hurry over to the stables lest Constance would change her mind.

Aramis watched the boy making his way over the courtyard, relieved at least Luc had a place to stay. He turned and sighed. “Now that's settled, we've still got Marie to think about.”

The girl had abandoned her place on Porthos' shoulders to chase chickens in the yard, her giggling sounding through the air.

“I've found a place where she can stay.”

All eyes turned to Constance, who looked every bit like being on the brink of bursting with joy.

“I've spoken with the Queen. The Dauphin is the only child in the palace, and we both think it would be a good idea if he had someone his own age to play with from time to time. He would have the chance to interact with someone his own age, to play with someone who knows how to play children's games, not games adults _think_ children might like to play. Marie would move to the palace, she would be given a room in the Queen's wing, a governess and a lady-in-waiting. She would have the chance for education,” Constance added softly.

“And what does Louis say to this? Will he let the Dauphin play with a commoner's child?”

Constance turned to Athos. “For Louis, Marie will be nothing more than one of the many ponies, parrots, toys or trinkets he's showering the Dauphin with. Marie will not be around young Louis all the time, and as long as it makes his son happy, Louis will be happy, too. He agreed,” she added.

“She would get education?” Aramis asked, his eyes focused on the girl chasing the chickens.

“The Queen promised me she will. She will learn how to read and write, needlework, music, and maybe even a little Greek or Latin. That's more than she could hope for anywhere else,” Constance replied softly.

“Thank you, Constance. I really appreciate it,” Aramis responded, murmuring, “I just wonder if she'll receive any warmth and affection there, too.”

Looking at Aramis, Constance's eyes radiated kindness and understanding. “I'm sure she will. The Queen will see to it.” She stepped closer to Aramis, not once losing his gaze. “Besides, you'll still be able to see Marie, now and then, and assure yourself how she's faring. You'll visit her from time to time, yes?”

Aramis regarded Constance intently. He would likely be able to see the Dauphin, too, when he visited Marie, was what Constance hadn't spoken out loud but Aramis could read in her eyes. As much as she disapproved of his liaison with the Queen, she knew he suffered for not being able to see his son, not being able to acknowledge him, and in this, she suffered with him. Constance was one of the most kind-hearted women he'd ever known. He inclined his head in gratitude.

“When will she move to the palace?” Porthos inquired, and beside the joy over the chance this offered for Marie, he felt saddened. He had taken the little girl into his heart.

“Tomorrow. The garrison really is no place for a little girl.”

*******

At dusk, d'Artagnan and Athos returned from a quick assignment and joined Aramis and Porthos at their usual table for the night meal. A short time later, Luc came over from where he had helped Jacques rub down the horses and provide them with water and grain, and Aramis invited him to sit with them. 

Marie came with Constance in tow to say good-night. It would be her last night at the garrison and she wanted to say good-bye as well in case the Inseparables were not there the next morning. Well, Porthos and Athos would be in any case for they would accompany Constance and Marie to the palace, but that fact didn't hinder them grabbing the chance when Marie graced every man with a good-night smooch.

Aramis was last in her line, and she climbed into his lap, throwing her arms around his neck. Aramis returned the embrace. “You will visit me in the palace, yes? Constance says you can come and visit me and the Dauphin every once in a while.” She leaned back so she could face Aramis. “I'm sure the Dauphin won't mind if you visit us. Constance says he is a very nice boy.”

“I promise I will,” Aramis replied, having problems getting the words out around the lump in his throat. “I will.” He pulled her close again, planting a kiss on her silken hair.

“I'll miss you, Aramis,” she whispered in his ear before she let go, planting a smacking kiss on Aramis' bearded cheek, and hopped down from the bench.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Marie,” Luc hurried to say. He didn't want to embarrass himself in front of the Inseparables by shedding a few tears when he said his good-byes to Marie. He would do that in the morning when no one was around to watch. “Sleep tight, little princess,” he called after her.

After Constance and Marie had gone, quiet settled over the courtyard, disturbed only by a horse's neigh every now and then, and the murmur of the few men still scattered over the courtyard. Athos refilled their cups. He darted a short glance at Aramis and poured Luc some wine, too. Into the stillness, Luc said, “I didn't let Marie see them. She had to stay in the cellars for three whole days, four, almost. I only allowed her to go to the inner yard once for some fresh air.”

Aramis was startled out of his musings. “You stayed in the cellar for three days? Why?” Before he had uttered the last word comprehension dawned on him.

“Only Marie,” Luc answered before Aramis could say more. “I--” Luc quickly glanced sideways and back. “Someone had to bury them, right?”

Aramis groaned and briefly closed his eyes.

Athos stared blatantly at Luc.

Porthos balled his fists. The muscles of his jaws clenched from grinding his teeth.

D'Artagnan's eyes reflected the horror that gripped the young man.

Luc blinked, uncomprehendingly, wondering if he had said something wrong. “I couldn't just simply leave them lying there.” He looked at Aramis.

Aramis stared back.

Every man made quick calculations. How long it would take a boy of Luc's stature to dig a pit big enough for twelve corpses. How long it would take to drag five small and seven big corpses down the stairs and halls of the monastery, over the yards to the burying site; and then to shovel it up again. How much time and energy it would have cost a boy like Luc, not to mention the inner strength and endurance such a task required.

“You laid them all to rest?” Aramis grated with a hoarse voice.

“I couldn't stand letting them just lie there and leave. But it's not right,” Luc declared in a low voice. “They should have had a proper Christian burial. I'm sorry, Aramis, I didn't know the right prayers, I recited psalm ninety-one instead. I hope it was all right...,” Luc trailed off, peeking sheepishly at Aramis.

Aramis glanced at Luc, and the marksman's expression of consternation softened and gave way to a display of emotions.

_.....He will cover you with his feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge;_  
_His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart._  
_You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day,_  
_nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday._  
_A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand,_  
_but it will not come near you......_

The psalm's words flowed through Aramis' mind, familiar and soothing; he had read and recited them a thousand times or more. 

“ _I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust,_ ” Aramis murmured, pulling Luc towards him and planting a soft kiss on the boy's brow. “You did well. I wouldn't have chosen any other psalm.” He moved so he could look the boy in the face. “It's time for bed. You'll have to get up again early tomorrow.”

Luc nodded and rose. “Good night.”

The Musketeers watched the boy making his way to the quarters. He still shared the room with Aramis.

Aramis knew it was time for Luc to move to his own quarters, and he would tell him so tomorrow. Or maybe the day after tomorrow. Luc would have to learn to live with his nightmares; he was old enough and Aramis would not be around forever. He sighed, already dreading that conversation.

“What else?” Porthos asked.

Athos and Aramis looked at him quizzically. D'Artagnan showed no reaction, still lost in thoughts about what they'd just heard.

“What else did they have to suffer? Did you know they'd been robbed of all their food on their very first day on the road?” Porthos could read in his brothers' facial expressions that they didn't know. “Marie told me. They had packed enough food, as well as blankets, to last them for a week. They had covered a half day's distance when they got ambushed and robbed of everything. After that, they hardly found food anywhere nor any shelter.” Porthos glared at them. “Who does things like that?” he growled.

_Huh_ , Aramis thought, _better not tell him about the farmer's pitchfork then._ Instead, he replied, “The times are hard, Porthos, people are suffering. It makes them do things they've never done before.” His words bore not the slightest consolation, though, not even to him. 

“So?” Porthos hissed, “Does that make things better? This is not what I fought for, innocent children being butchered, being ambushed and robbed. War still isn't any sort of reason to behave like animals.” The big man pushed away from the table, rising. “If such people are what I fought for all those years, I'm ashamed of it.” He left without another word, heading through the archway, most likely to find a card game he could use as a stepping stone for the next best brawl.

Aramis rose.

Athos grabbed his friend's arm. “Leave him. He needs to blow off steam.”

Aramis sank down on the bench again and together they sat in silence, each man dwelling on his thoughts, until the sky had turned completely dark.

“He's still angry with me,” Aramis said eventually.

“Meanwhile, I think his anger is directed more at him rather than at you. Even though it might not come across that way. It's hard for him to keep his anger alive,” Athos continued, a smirk crawling over his face, “with all the miracle stories Marie is telling him about Brother Aramis.” The captain's eyes focused on the former monk. “I have a feeling the young lady is helping a lot to put Porthos' mind into perspective again.”

A smile spread over Aramis' features and he nodded. “Yes, she has that knack.”

********

_Three weeks later_

Luc watched the Musketeers getting ready to return the recovered grain to the people of Paris, and to the people of Saint Antoine in particular, and then started his effort to cajole Aramis into taking him with them. “Please, Aramis, can I not come with you? Only once? I've been here at the garrison ever since we came to Paris. I've not seen anything beside the stables and the quarters. I've not once been outside the garrison. Please,” he whined.

Aramis turned to Athos, the two man staring at each other for a moment. Finally, Athos shrugged. “We're only returning the grain, what could possibly go wrong?” As soon as the words had left his mouth, Athos frowned. He knew he had used the same expression once or twice before, and he was sure despite the choice of words that it had always ended badly. Disastrously.

“Saddle a horse, but hurry up,” Aramis declared with a chuckle in his voice.

The boy grinned from ear to ear, and raced to the stable. He was back before the last sack of grain had been loaded onto the wagons.

*******

When the rider who had thanked Porthos personally for returning the grain, turned around and rode away, the Musketeers looked after him, stepping into the street outside the gate of Saint Antoine. Something had been creepy about the man, but none of them could put a finger on what it was. Athos was still pondering why he thought he had met this man before. When the figure on the horse had melted with the street's bustle, they turned to gather their horses and make their way back. 

Luc, who had offered to look after the horses while they had spoken a few words with the refugees from Saint Antoine, had waited for them by the wall. He had chuckled seeing Sylvie kiss Athos and snickered when he heard the others making fun of it, and then quickly turned around and busied himself with the horse tack to cover his glee. Only when the Musketeers hadn't shown up a moment later had he looked around to see what had kept them and found them talking to a man on a horse underneath the archway. That was the moment he froze and the blood in his veins turned into rivers of ice.

As soon as Aramis' eyes settled on Luc, he knew something was wrong. The boy was white as a sheet, his eyes huge as saucers and even from a distance he could see the fear gripping the poor boy's heart. The horses' reins had slipped his fingers and dangled beside him. “Luc,” he shouted, trying to gain the young man's attention.

“What's wrong with him?” Porthos asked, his gaze settling on Luc.

With a few bounding strides the Musketeers reached the boy.

“Luc, what is it?” Aramis asked when he finally stood in front of the boy, lightly shaking Luc's shoulders.

Luc's eyes still stared over the Musketeers' shoulders, to the archway. “That was the man. The man from the monastery,” he whispered, “The one who killed them all.”

Even before the last words had passed the boy's lips, Porthos and d'Artagnan had turned around, running through the archway to where they had last seen the man vanish into the crowd.

Athos cursed under his breath and mounted, urging his horse to follow the others out into the street.

Luc's eyes slowly shifted until he focused on Aramis. “It was him. He's here in Paris.”

“Come,” Aramis growled through gritted teeth, mounting his horse and urging Luc to do the same. “We need to catch him. Give me the reins.” Aramis gestured for Porthos and d'Artagnan's horses. “Stay close to me. Always! Do you hear me?” He quickly squeezed Luc's shoulders and spurred his horse, relying on Luc to follow him into the busy Parisian streets.

*******

From where he was hiding in the shadows, Lucien Grimaud watched the Musketeers emerge. First, the big dark-skinned man and the youngest of the ones everyone called _les Inseparables_ showed up, frantic in their fruitless effort to make him out in the crowded street, to find a trace of his passing. Shortly after, the Captain of the King's Musketeers followed on horseback, his face an unreadable mask, his eyes skimming the area around him from under the brim of his hat. And finally, the boy who had outwitted and escaped his men twice came into view, together with the former monk who wore the Musketeers' uniform now, close by his side. Grimaud's eyes narrowed a fraction with hate. _It won't help you anything, brat, they won't be able to save you from my wrath. Very soon they'll all be dead._ He would chase them to the vaults of Hell and wash his hands with their blood. He would get his vengeance. No one messed with Lucien Grimaud and went unpunished. _I'll make you pay...._

Grimaud stepped back and melted into the shadows.


End file.
